Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head, Marched armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread, And shook the Pyramids with fear and wonder, If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed, The nature of thy private life unfold : A heart has throbbed beneath that leathern breast, Statue of flesh-Immortal of the dead! Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow bed, Why should this worthless tegument endure, BRING BACK THE CHAIN. BY MRS. NORTON. Ir was an aged man, who stood Beside the blue Atlantic sea; They cast his fetters by the flood, And hailed the time-worn captive free; From his indignant eye there flashed Thus spoke the spirit-stricken slave : "Bring back the chain, whose weight so long "Then I have stretched my yearning arms, And bid me bless my envied fate: Where?-I am desolate! "The boundless hope- the spring of joy Felt when the spirit's strength is young; Which slavery only can alloy, The mockeries to which I clung; "Bring back the chain; its clanking sound Gazed o'er the wild and swelling sea, "Bring back the chain ! that I may think Dream-as I dreamt-of bitter woe! "Freedom! though doomed in pain to live, Around my steps must ever twine. MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. BY H. G. BELL. I LOOKED far back into other years, and lo! in bright array, I saw, as in a dream, the forms of ages passed away. It was a stately convent, with its old and lofty walls, And gardens, with their broad green walks, where soft the footstep falls; And o'er the antique dial-stones the creeping shadow passed, And all around the noonday sun a drowsy radiance cast. No sound of busy life was heard, save, from the cloister dim, The tinkling of the silver bell, or the sisters' holy hymn. And there five noble maidens sat beneath the orchard trees, In that first budding spring of youth, when all its prospects please; And little recked they when they sang, or knelt at vesper prayers, That Scotland knew no prouder names- -held none more dear than theirs ; And little even the loveliest thought, before the Virgin's shrine, Of royal blood, and high descent from the ancient Stuart line; Calmly her happy days flew on, uncounted in their flight, And as they flew they left behind a long-continuing light. The scene was changed. It was the court-the gay court of Bourbon And 'neath a thousand silver lamps, a thousand courtiers throng; And proudly kindles Henry's eye-well pleased, I ween, to see The land assemble all its wealth of grace and chivalry :Grey Montmorency, o'er whose head has passed a storm of years, Strong in himself and children stands, the first among his peers; And next the Guises, who so well fame's steepest heights assailed, And walked ambition's diamond ridge, where bravest hearts have failed And higher yet their path shall be, stronger shall wax their might, For before them Montmorency's star shall pale its waning light. Here Louis, Prince of Condé, wears his all-unconquered sword, With great Coligni by his side-each name a household word! And there walks she of Medicis-that proud Italian line, The mother of a race of kings-the haughty Catharine! The forms that follow in her train, a glorious sunshine make A milky way of stars that grace a comet's glittering wake; But fairer far than all the rest, who bask on fortune's tide, Effulgent in the light of youth, is she, the new-made bride! The homage of a thousand hearts-the fond, deep love of one The hopes that dance around a life whose charms are but begun They lighten up her chestnut eye, they mantle o'er her cheek, They sparkle on her open brow, and high-souled joy be speak. Ah! who shall blame, if scarce that day, through all its brilliant hours, She thought of that quiet convent's calm, its sunshine, and its flowers? The scene was changed. It was a bark that slowly held its way, And o'er its lee the coast of France in the light of evening lay; And on its deck a lady sat, who gazed with tearful eyes birth; It was her mother's land, the land of childhood and of friends It was the land where she had found for all her griefs amends The land where her dead husband slept-the land where she had known The tranquil convent's hushed repose, and the splendours of a throne: No marvel that the lady wept-it was the land of FranceThe chosen home of chivalry—the garden of romance! |